By Anisha Manglani – News Editor

“Wallflower”

In the corner of a room sits a boy no older than sixteen. Around him the dark room buzzes with anticipation of the night. The hour hand ticks slowly toward the twelve and the boy sits still. He sees. He listens. With his knees ticked into his chest, he disappears into the thumping of the music and the whoops and cheers of dancers in a fog of dizziness. There is a scream of giggles from somewhere upstairs and the sound carries to every corner of the house. Across him is a girl huddled by the fireplace, whispering into another’s ear. The other girl’s face turns a sickly shade of green. What she says he does not know. He only looks. In another corner of the room, a group of older boys hold red cups in the air, howling like wolves and slapping each other’s backs. Over what victory? The boy does not know. He only watches. He rubs his eyes and grabs a drink. Maybe he’ll participate, or maybe he’ll just see.

“Typewritten”

A man with bags lining his eyes huddles over his typewriter. A page of black ink swims before his sight and blurs as he resists with all his might from tearing it apart. The sun has set long ago, and in a room with nothing but walls and his machine, the man shivers. The incessant clicking of the keys mocks him. The swipe of the ribbon marks no return. A new page. One sentence reads: “The moon rises, its craters visible from the earth’s eye.”

“WRONG!” screams the man in frustration. He knocks his typewriter off the table only to see it smash to pieces on the cold, wooden floor.

“Whisper”

It is the skin underneath the tickle of a feather that has never completely shed the trace of its ghost. It is the soft silk that glides through fingertips and over bare bodies, like water flowing in the lazy river. It is the blue veins that weave spider webs through your arms, some days more visible than others. It is the truth of a hushed whisper flying through your hair, commanding shivers down your spine. It is the forgotten words of a lost mind.

“Pristine”

What lies beneath these blankets of flittering white

Where the children play in folly and fault?

The powder sifts upon the ground,

Revealing in its heart a crimson swoon

Deeper than rouge in the devil’s best dreams.

It gasps for air,

To swim, to dive,

To purge itself a hungry craving,

To paint its heart upon the snow.